


The Human Thing

by teyla



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dissociation, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft-centric, No explicit incest, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, Sibling Bonding, or trying to be anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 10:40:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10216202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teyla/pseuds/teyla
Summary: Humaning is hard for the Holmes siblings. Mycroft usually has a pretty good handle on it, but the experiences at Sherrinford trip him up. Temporarily, of course.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So here's my TFP coda, because _someone_ needs to make sure Mycroft's okay, even if it's Sherlock.
> 
> Kudos are great, comments are greater. Enjoy!

Mycroft loses track of time.

This does not happen. Repeat, it does _not_ happen. Time is certainly relative, but anyone with a semi-respectable level of intelligence should be able to compensate and keep track of its passing.

But then, his intellect has been cast in serious doubt today. _Unsupervised_. God.

The cell has no daylight. That’s his only excuse, as meagre as it may be. No daylight, and it reeks of blood. Bits of brain matter are spattered on the glass, and the body is still here, too. The governor was an intelligent man; Mycroft wouldn’t have trusted him with the job otherwise. Intelligent and brave. And yet, the final act of his life had been a panicked, pointless, _stupid_ mistake.

Or maybe not. Eurus would have killed him, anyway. She wants to kill all of them. Except Sherlock.

She’s fascinated by Sherlock. She wouldn’t kill him.

Please don’t kill him.

Mycroft puts his head between his knees and waits. He’s adding prime numbers in his head; a pointless waste of mental capacity, but it gives him something to do. Something to think about that isn’t Sherlock with the barrel of the gun tucked under his chin, not Eurus who played him as easily as she plays everyone else. He didn’t see it. How did he not see it?

Seventy-five thousand one hundred and thirty plus nine hundred and ninety-seven. Seventy-six thousand one hundred and twenty-seven. Well done, Myc. You can perform simple sums in your head. Gold star.

He’s well past a million when the swish of the door makes him snap his head up. It’s loud, much louder than it’s got any right to be. A uniformed police officer enters, and her boots on the concrete floor echo off the walls. It’s deafening. Her hand on his shoulder feels disembodied, and her voice sounds like she’s broadcasting it via intercom.

“Mr Holmes. Are you all right?”

He squirms away from her touch before he can control the rude impulse. “Fine. I’m fine.” His own voice doesn’t sound distorted, but it seems very far away. His sensory input is, profanely put, completely fucked. “Where’s Sherlock?”

“Your brother is unharmed, sir. He phoned in from Oxfordshire, requesting reinforcements to dig up an old well. He’s apparently detained the escapee.”

Eurus. Sherlock’s detained her. _Sherlock_ did. In _Oxfordshire_?

He’s not aware he said that last bit out loud until the police officer nods. “Whichford, sir. Your family’s old residence.”

Fake gravestones, gnarly trees, too far from the next library. He remembers Whichford. “What the hell is Sherlock doing there?”

Reality tilts all of a sudden. Did Eurus’ game ever even happen? Did he imagine it? Is he _supposed_ to be in here, a prisoner deemed too dangerous for standard incarceration?

Was it him all along, not Eurus? Does Eurus even exist? Sherlock was sure she didn’t, until Mycroft told him otherwise.

“Mr Holmes.” The officer touches him again, and he shrinks away again. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes.” He forces himself to look at the corpse across the room. Brains blown out all over the glass. He’s not crazy. Today happened. “I’m fine. I take it Eurus somehow transported Sherlock to Whichford?”

“Stole a helicopter. And a pilot. He’s not making much sense, but the doctor says he’ll be fine.”

“What about Dr Watson?”

“He’s in the well. Last update I got, they were getting him out.”

Of course it was a well. It always seems to be. How did they never find it? “Redbeard,” he mutters under his breath.

“Excuse me?”

He shakes his head. He’s having a hard time holding on to the room. The walls seem to be stretching and contracting, sounds echoing oddly and hollow. His waistcoat seems to be getting tighter, the sleeves of his jacket retracting to expose his wrists. He _hates_ ill-fitting clothes.

“Would you like to get out of here?” The police officer sounds like she’s trying to be gentle. It’s probably no coincidence that she’s a woman. They always send women to deal with compromised victims. He does, anyway.

“Yes.” He stands up, ignores the way the room seems to waver. “I need to speak to Anthea.”

“Who’s Anthea?”

Of course. She wouldn’t know. Very few people know Anthea; outside the SIS it’s almost nobody. Good Lord, Sherrinford’s crawling with police. Standard, normal police officers who don’t know the first thing about being discreet. The entire facility’s been compromised. “My phone. Where is it?”

They’ve arrived on the right side of the glass, the one that’s connected to the outside world. The lights in the lift are too bright. Everything is too bright, too loud. He ducks his head as the police officer shouts across the room to a colleague to ask where the bagged evidence has gone. After a few moments, she presses his phone into his hand.

He texts Anthea. He hates texting, hates putting things down in writing. But the idea of putting the phone to his ear seems unbearable right now.

He realizes only after he hits send that the phone’s clock reads just past two in the morning. The twinge of guilt in his stomach twists. He should be dealing with this himself. It’s his mess, and even if it weren’t, it’s not the kind of job to leave to an assistant. He can’t trust himself, though. He’s not even sure of the physicality of his surroundings right now.

He pockets the phone and turns to the police officer. She, at least, doesn’t seem to have noticed much of his distress. “Is there a way for me to get off of this island?” he asks with as much politeness as he can muster. “I’d like to go home.”

~*~

Lestrade’s unmarked police cruiser drops them off at Baker Street at the crack of dawn. Sherlock follows John into the sitting room, where they each take a seat in their respective chairs.

John makes tea. John tries to coax him into saying something. Eventually, Sherlock strings together some words that let John know that talking is difficult right now.

The lecture on how he’ll have to talk about it sooner or later doesn't come. John just falls silent. Less than half an hour later, he’s asleep with his chin on his chest.

He’s probably exhausted. Almost drowning will do that to you.

From the car, Sherlock texted Molly. It took him most of the trip to compose the message.

She replied almost right away.

Everyone’s sleeping. Lestrade told them that even Mycroft had requested to go home immediately after they’d freed him from the cell at Sherrinford. In everyone else, that would be perfectly normal behaviour. In Mycroft, it’s making Sherlock uneasy. Mycroft allowing the clean-up to be overseen by anyone but himself doesn’t sound like Mycroft at all.

But then, nothing about Mycroft’s behaviour at Sherrinford had seemed like Mycroft. Sherlock’s never seen his brother lose it like that. He’s also not sure he buys Mycroft’s explanation for what happened. Giving Eurus a violin versus allowing her five minutes of unsupervised conversation with the most dangerous criminal mind in Europe—these two things are not comparable. He knows that, even though all he knows about Eurus he’s learned in the past twenty-four hours. Mycroft should _definitely_ have known that. Even if he’s not as smart as he insists he is, he’s not brain damaged.

Or is he?

Cold fingers clench around Sherlock’s insides as he reaches for his phone.

A brain tumour could explain Mycroft’s lapse in judgment, as well as his altered behaviour. Assuming Mycroft is aware of the diagnosis and received an unfavourable prognosis, it could also explain his willingness to die. Sherlock is certain Mycroft would prefer a clean, quick death to a creeping deterioration of his mental capacities.

The message switches from _Delivered_ to _Read_ , but there’s no reply. It’s not exactly a confirmation of his hypothesis, but it’s no evidence to the contrary, either.

No reply.

Finally, the ellipsis indicating a reply.

Rude. Not to mention, _odd_. The texts he sent express concern, which is something he rarely shows for Mycroft. At least not in a way so the man will notice. In his experience, showing concern always elicits a somewhat positive response. Sardonic mockery, at the very least. Not outright rejection.

He glances at John, who has started to snore softly. Very soon, Mrs Hudson will appear and wake John up to tend to his duties as a father. Sherlock is not in the mood to deal with either their landlady, a cranky and overtired John, or a small human with no verbal abilities. Mycroft is preferable.

He slips out of the flat and hails a cab to take him to Knightsbridge.

~*~

Mycroft can tell there’s somebody in his house. Taking into consideration the texts he received earlier, and the fact that the intruder seems to have disabled his security without difficulty, it’s not hard to guess who it might be.

He should probably leave the bathroom and find Sherlock before the man does untold damage to Mycroft’s possessions. Failing that, he should at least put some clothes on, or get into the shower. Suggest some reason as to why he’s buck naked and ignoring this intrusion of privacy.

Instead, he stays where he is, huddled in the corner of the large upstairs bathroom, cold tiles pressing against his skin. They’re soothing. He’s been here for a number of hours. How many, he couldn’t say. He’s lost track of time again.

At least the walls of the room have stopped undulating. Everything just feels distant now, as if hidden behind a veil. Mycroft doesn’t mind so much. It’s always been somewhat of a challenge for him to feel entirely real, which is why he likes structure: in an ordered, known environment, it’s easier to know how to relate to his surroundings. Change disrupts, it damages the carefully constructed tethers that tie him to reality. He’s fairly skilled at establishing new connections, sometimes very quickly. A dissociative episode like this hasn’t happened to him since his university years. Of course, considering today’s events, a relapse of sorts is perhaps not unexpected.

It will pass. He just has to wait. He was hoping to do the waiting in private, but Sherlock seems to have different plans. He’s banging on the bathroom door now, calling Mycroft’s name. Mycroft wishes he’d go away. He’s sensitive to sounds right now, and to the feeling of fabric on his skin. He’d hate to have to put on clothes.

It takes him a while, but eventually he gets his throat to produce words. “Go away, Sherlock. I’m not decent.”

“You’re never decent,” comes the reply, and really, that makes no sense. What is Sherlock implying; that he never wears clothes? “Open the door, or I’m coming in uninvited.”

“You already have.”

There’s no reply, just the tell-tale sounds of a lock pick being put to use. The lock is no challenge; Sherlock will be barging in any moment. He should really get up, or at least move to sit on the commode.

The door flies open. Too late. Oh well.

“What are you doing?”

Mycroft has about an inch on Sherlock, but from where he’s sitting on the floor, he has to admit that his brother makes an impressively tall figure. The coat helps. Mycroft knew it would when he picked it.

“Sherlock. So good to see you.”

“What are you doing?” Sherlock sounds brusque and irritated, the way he gets when the world doesn’t conform to Sherlock Holmes’ ideas of what’s acceptable. He takes a step towards Mycroft, and Mycroft tries to shift away—unsuccessfully, of course, as he’s right up against the wall.

“I’d prefer you didn’t approach me.”

Sherlock actually stops. Wonders never cease.

“What’s going on?” A note of insecurity has crept into his brother’s voice, and that more than anything makes Mycroft wish he’d at least put on a robe.

“I appear to be experiencing a dissociative episode. Not to worry, Sherlock, it’ll pass soon enough.”

Sherlock’s irritation doesn’t seem to lessen. If anything, his expression grows narrower. “What, like you’re on a plane and can’t land? _Please_ , Mycroft, do pull yourself together.”

It takes him a few moments to figure out what Sherlock is saying. “So it _was_ her,” he muses. “The girl on the plane wasn’t real. It was a metaphor. I wondered.” More than that, he thinks. Subconsciously, he must have known. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have completely forgotten about the crashing plane until Sherlock mentioned it just now. Even then, this selective amnesia is concerning.

“Of course you did,” Sherlock snarls. “Easy to take credit now that I’ve already worked it out. And it’s not a metaphor, it’s an allegory.”

“Of course. You are quite right.” Silence settles, and Mycroft registers a bone-deep weariness creep into his limbs. It’s not comfortable, but it means the waiting has paid off. He’s starting to feel his body again. “You don’t have to be here, Sherlock.” He tries to sound gentle rather than dismissive. He’s only trying to spare his brother the obvious discomfort of this situation. “I assure you, I’ll be fine.”

For a moment, Sherlock looks like he’s going to turn on his heel and march out. Instead, he crosses to the wall opposite from Mycroft and sits down. He draws his knees up and rests his forearms on them, coat tails spread out on the floor. He’s watching Mycroft with the same expression he uses to examine particularly confounding lab experiments.

“I didn’t know you got these,” he says eventually.

“I don’t.” Mycroft’s skin prickles as he starts to register the cold. The bathroom is quite chilly. “Not anymore. They would happen on occasion when I was younger.”

“Never when I was around.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “I made sure of that.”

Sherlock keeps staring. “Why did you keep it a secret?”

“I’d have thought you’d be the last person to ask.” Mycroft trails the tips of his fingers over the pad of his thumb as a still-familiar tingling sets in. “When did it ever benefit you to admit any of your irregularities to the parental unit?”

“You could have told _me_.”

“To what end?”

He doesn’t mean anything by it, aside from pointing out that telling Sherlock about his struggles with dissociation would have served no purpose. Still, Sherlock takes it as an incentive to get angry again. “Maybe because I’m your brother,” he spits.

Mycroft has no reply to that. Exhaustion weighs him down as he holds Sherlock’s eyes across the room and considers the temptation of discouraging the return of physical awareness. He was quite content, earlier, sitting here and ignoring that the world exists. He’s taken himself off the operation at Sherrinford, so there’s really no reason for him to need to be functional right now.

Except, of course, that he’s expected to show his face at the office at some point today. _There is no peace, saith my God, to the wicked_.

“Oh for God’s sake.” Sherlock gets to his feet, illustrating his annoyance with a flourish of his coat. He grabs Mycroft’s robe off the back of the door, as if to arm himself with even more fabric to brandish about, and stalks over to where Mycroft is sitting. “Put it on.”

Mycroft considers the robe, then his brother’s face. “Why?”

“Because you look pathetic enough that even I am starting to feel sorry for you.”

The robe hangs from his brother’s grip like a black cascade of silky fabric. It’s dragging on the floor, and Mycroft tries to remember when the cleaners were here last. Usually, he knows these things without even having to think about them. His grasp on the linear progression of time is in bad shape.

“Very well,” he says. “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for exposing you to such a dreadful state of being for too long.”

He uses the wall for support as he gets to his feet, carefully operating estranged limbs until they keep him upright. The robe doesn’t feel too bad on his skin; the texture fairly similar, actually, to the tiles of the bathroom wall. His fingers feel clumsy as he tries to tie the ribbon, and he fumbles it twice, until Sherlock pushes his hands away with an exasperated sigh. “Hold still.”

He bears the embarrassment of Sherlock tying his robe with as much dignity as he can muster. Finally, his brother steps back, and Mycroft levels him with an even stare. He feels challenging, of all things. Must be the extra inch of height, and possibly detrimental levels of delusions of grandeur. “Now what, brother mine?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock’s shoulders twitch in a shrug. “I’m rubbish at this.” His eyebrows draw together. “Though apparently better than _either_ of my siblings. Imagine that, I finally found the one thing you can’t beat me at.”

That almost elicits a smile from Mycroft. “Imagine that.”

He can’t feel his feet. He’s not sure if that’s because of the dissociation, or because the cold bathroom floor has turned them to ice.

“John would make tea, I suppose.”

Mycroft inclines his head. “Lead the way, then. Kettle’s in the kitchen.”

Neither of them acknowledge the supporting hand on his elbow as they make their way down the stairs, but Mycroft can’t deny being grateful for it.


End file.
